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Hot Egg On Stilts
"Just three more."  Maureen tugged at my arm.  "Maybe four."  She was selfish sometimes.

She weighed less than a hundred pounds; seventy five of it legs - long, silky, muscular legs that were flexing and stretching ahead of me as she scaled the hood of an Impala, reaching up for the bumper of a front-end collision late 70's Datsun.  She was going for the top - the fifth car precariously balanced on its crashed and crushed brothers and sisters:  the fabled '86 Toyota Camry someone had torched the roof off.

At school, my friends would say how her body looks so weirdly hot - her bubble of an ass perched up high on those long legs, and her short-waisted torso with equally long, drawn arms, all so well-muscled and lean you'd think she worked all day long on it, swimming, stretching, but no.  She was a natural.  

How come you guys aren't going out, they'd ask, and I'd think how stupid they were not to see what was always there between us. If they only knew.  Hot Egg On Stilts is what they called her, and when they did, it made me think about what that would look like as an asian short-order diner dish.  It would definitely be hot. 

"C'mon!"  Sweat slickened her face, she looked angry when she was horny, and sometimes she was rough and that was okay.  I almost prayed though, that she'd be worn out and this would be the last car.  Some full moons she'd dragged me through twice the number of junkers before she'd let me pop.

"I'm coming."  Barely.  I was worn out from a long day digging a drainage ditch on our driveway, but watching her maneuver up over hoods and roofs, climbing bumpers and grills like they were sheer cliffs was magnificent.  When the moon was just off to the side - up and just behind her back - her naked-from-the-bikini-down body would flash her glorious ass and a jolt of energy would make me twitch as if lightning had struck, grounding out my rod against a hood ornament or dragging it over the raised chrome lettering on a Buick's hood.  There was no tellin' where we lost her shorts or mine.

"Oh, noooooo you're not..."  She laughed, jerking hard on my wrist.  "You're not cumming until I tell you you're cumming."

Two hours earlier I'd been asleep in my bed, thinking, she's fallen asleep - I'll rest tonight and not wake up with the ribbed pattern of a Mercury Montego's vinyl seat friction-burned on my ass cheeks.  I won't have to explain away the deep furrow of a Cadillac's window crank gouged in my temple.  

Then came the tap-tap-tapping at my window, a cheap fake diamond ring the size of a grape just about to crack the center glass pane.  I used to always wait a few seconds before jumping straight up, just to watch her face through the window.  In dim light I'd think how much she really did look like a hot vampire and then I'd wonder how many years it would be before the sound of glass being knuckle-rapped would no longer cause my dick to twitch?

"Come ON!"  She hiss-whispered, that hungry, glassy look in her eyes usually meant she'd already rubbed several out during the day thinking about us fucking our way through the cars in her daddy's junk yard.

It was hot.  I'd pulled on a pair of shorts (no underwear - what's the point?), slipped into my sneakers, climbed through the window and let her yank me through the woods towards the hole in the fence we'd cut with pliers when we were seven - the first time we fooled around in the stacks of rusted out machines, lounging in backseat upholstered luxury, one whole summer working over the plush interior of a super-stretch limo.

"Wait."  She stopped near a giant of an oak right next to the fence.  "Kiss me."

I pinned her against the tree and we kissed, deeply - her grinding into my hip and crotch almost mechanical in its force and regularity.

"Come on...the moon's coming."  And off she went, pulling hard on my waistband like a tow line, every now and then slowing to reach down and feel me up.  She always wore the same bikini top - stained at two spots with crankcase grease - and loose gym shorts. Oh, and hiking boots with red wool knee-high socks, and that was okay, too. 

When she was away one summer during a full moon, I thought more about her and her boots and stockings than you could possibly imagine. 

"Why do you always go for the sub-compacts?"  I huffed in her wake - oh man, she smelled good.  There's something about the smell of clean, dry leather mixed with sex and motor oil. 

"There are perfectly clean Caddies over there at ground level..."

"Haven't you figured it out."  She stopped, boot toes and stockings pressed into the face of the Datsun's twisted grill.

I hadn't.

"It's the leverage, dummy."  She reached down and pulled me up to her, tight against her.  "Those holyshit handles above each door are the best!"

We scaled the last car and she swung briskly around the driver's side, trusting the stability of the stack and what was left of the windshield frame.

"A convertible -- and right on top!!!"  She was giddy, making a trampoline of the front seats.

It would be an hour later before she allowed me to finish.  After I caught my breath, I pointed out how the roofless Camry didn't have any holyshit handles above its doors.

"But it's closer to the sky."

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post #117
bio: nate

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The punching thing.
Hot Egg On Stilts
Sucking through tubes.
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